i am in pinole, a lovingly paved blip on the I-80 to sacramento. i am here for this; i will wear this (in desert indigo) for love of sarajean, who will be married in january. a thoughtful and organized bride, she mapquested me here and asked only that i pass along the winning dress size. turns out i'm just short of a compromise between amy, who grants wishes and hides pots of gold (6), and heather, who expects her second child sometime this winter (20). i could smuggle arms for the rebels under the waist of this thing, mind you, but i could also deflect enemy fire somewhere upstairs. aren't you glad you came to my website? ta-dow.

just finished amanda's wedding (jenny colgan), a novel that was shrink-wrapped with august's british cosmo. it was wondrous, as at any given moment i can taste how desperately i want to live in england; any work that ropes in topshop and adam ant's highwayman phase gets my full support. if you want to taste the magic, it's under my bed.

said cosmo had a splashy article on some chick who'd been a bridesmaid eight times. she apparently retired from service because the perpetual wedding stuff was making her boyfriend nervous. it didn't occur to him that he was home free as long as she kept it up? she concluded, i think, with a spiel about how she's on a new campaign to catch everyone's bouquet. you made that bed yourself, guy: have fun in it. i'll check on you two a few issues from now to see if you're kidnapped by extremists on your honeymoon ("It Happened to Me!").